Alexander Tarazona

Nothing survives the summer. Ice first. Then wine. The creases the blanket leaves on bare legs disappear before you get home. The tans take longer. Summer lovers take longer to reply, then stop. Everyone puts their clothes back on. Fall comes. You blink, and you’re pulling a scarf over your mouth.

Gabriela is a Colombian actress living in New York. She delivers painful truths through bad jokes, which makes her exactly the person I would ask for advice. We met two years ago. Since then, cities, jobs, mistakes and a few broken hearts have passed through our lives. So we asked: What comes after love?

On dreams, bad timing and beautiful accidents. We spent the day inside one of those old hotels untouched by time. A place smelling faintly of old wood, cigarette ghosts and expensive perfume. Like a movie set that forgot to die. At some point we argued over what film to watch: The Devil Wears Prada or some old De Niro classic. Eventually we agreed room service and cold white wine made more sense than popcorn anyway.

There are nights when life feels like a badly shuffled game. Because maybe love isn’t a plan at all. Maybe it’s closer to a casino: bright, hypnotic, a little cruel, and impossible to resist once you’re in. Love feels less like destiny and more like bad odds under low light. Not tragic enough to make a scene, not kind enough to let you forget it. People arrive too early, or too late. One wants forever when the other can barely survive the week. The house, as always, seems to know something you don’t.

It was my first time in Buenos Aires. You could describe it as the soul of Europe wrapped in Latin heat. A city that kisses you like a tango and stirs you with passion. Bianca became my muse. We met just days before I returned to Colombia. Her eyes sparkled like Avenida Corrientes; she was as elegant as Teatro Colón and as fierce as a stadium on derby day.

Some read to escape. Others, to feel. I’ve always believed people are books too—filled with chapters, scribbles, characters, plot twists, and margins full of notes. You can’t judge them by their cover, no matter how worn or polished. You have to read them slowly.

Where does inspiration go when it disappears? Does it ghost you like a bad habit—gone without warning? She showed up unannounced. A bottle of wine, three books, and an idea: “What if we did a picnic?”

This intimate photo series by Alexander Tarazona captures Nora Jurado in a quiet, sensual moment — all soft light, skin, and feeling.

Kassi got here first, with her Brazilian laugh and those eyes that hold stories like old postcards. Two strangers crossing paths—same story, but it never feels the same. The golden light spills through the clouds, tinting everything a pale green, like a memory that refuses to fade. We talked about loves that no longer hurt, about cities we left behind… and maybe about the next corner of the world where we’ll meet again.

“Barcelona has always been a place you return to when you’re broken, though you don’t really know why. The streets are full of history—of loves that never were, of farewells and encounters still heavy in the air. The balconies watch you, the bars smell of vermouth from noon, and the sun creeps through the windows like a spy. Time here doesn’t heal anything, but it doesn’t rush you either. Everything moves slowly, like a long, hot breath.

It’s my first day in Budapest. The streets smell like history—like stones that have heard too much and still keep quiet. No one here bothers to hide the passing of time. They don’t cover it up. They don’t smooth it over. They let it be. Let it stay. Let it grow, like the mold on high ceilings or the cracks in old walls. And that’s beautiful. To see time as it is—imperfect, honest, inevitable. To see how time passes… and passes through us. It moves through us. It pulls us under. It leaves marks.

“When she leaves, the room is never the same. It looks untouched, but fire has passed through it. No visible ashes, yet everything inside—the walls, the bed, the silence—has been consumed by her memory.”

“Born in the wrong era. I often say I feel like a tourist and don’t belong to any city. But her, Isabella McCausland—she doesn’t belong to this era. A designer by trade but a pop icon at heart, Isabella carries the essence of another time in her energy. She dances as if MTV still set the trends as if we were back in those years when pop stars were almost goddesses.

Introducing the photo series Destiempo, a moving exploration of fleeting connections and the beauty found in missed timing. Photographer Alexander Tarazona captures the raw, sensual intensity of an encounter with model Ángela Bonilla, set against the historic backdrop of Bogotá.

We met by chance, just before she left for Mexico. Somehow, life always introduces me to people right before they’re about to leave. We think farewells are the end, but they’re just new beginnings. In that brief moment, we found the nearest hotel and started imagining a life that felt like it was ending before it even began.